


Evergreen, or, Where Love and Obsession Meet

by heroesinahalfshell91



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Fandom, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Abuse, Death, Division of Social Class, Drama, Eventual Romance, Families of Choice, Loss, Multi, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroesinahalfshell91/pseuds/heroesinahalfshell91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colombe is a maid who lives and works in the Palais Garnier where the world famous Paris Opera, and Paris Opera Ballet preform miracles on the stage. Anything but special, and easily passed over this girl is about to become part of an expanding tale of love, loss, tragedy, intrigue, and murder; and maybe even come to work some miracles of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The world famous Palais Garneir is a building of exceptional opulence. Halled with elaborate multicolored marble friezes, columns, and lavish statuary, many of which portray deities of Greek mythology; every corner, vault, and ceiling paying homage to music, this hallowed place was surely it's temple constructed upon the Earth.

Fourteen painters, mosaicists and seventy-three sculptors participated in the creation of its ornamentation, a task, which when coupled with an account of it's construction had taken no less than fifteen years to complete.

The exterior featured two gilded figural groups, Charles Gumery's L'Harmonie and La Poésie, crowning the apexes of the principal facade's left and right avant-corps. Whilst at the bases of the two avant-corps there are decorated the four major, multi-figure groups depicting the embodied forms of poetry, instrumental music, the dance, and lyrical drama.

Gilded bronze busts of many of the great composers are located between these columns making up the theatre's front façade. The sculptural group Apollo, Poetry, and Music, located at the apex of the south gable of the stage flytower, with the two smaller bronze Pegasus figures at either end of the south gable.

Located to the east side of the building lay a pavilion, designed to allow the wealthy subscribers and social lights who attended direct access from their carriages to the interior of the building rather than needlessly tiring their legs upon the main stairway. It is covered by a large dome with two pairs of obelisks marking the entrances of the Rotunda to the north and the south.

Once inside the eye was treated to the interior in all it's resplendent glory consisting of interweaving corridors, stairwells, alcoves and landings allowing for the fluid movement of vast numbers of people who would come clothes in layers if the finest silks, and still require space for socializing during intermission. Rich with velvet, gold leaf, cherubim and nymphs, the interior is epitome of sumptuousness and splendor.

Featuring a large ceremonial staircase of white marble with a balustrade of red and green marble, which divides into two divergent flights of stairs that lead to the Grand Foyer the pedestals are decorated with female torchères. Looking down upon them from above the staircase the ceiling was painted by Isidore Pils to depict The Triumph of Apollo, The Enchantment of Music Deploying its Charms, Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus, and The City of Paris Receiving the Plan of the New Opéra. All of it culminating to a wickedly beguiling beauty that transfixed the eye, and transcended the mortal bounds to give one a sense of divinity.

The Grand Foyer is a hall eighteen meters high, one hundred and fifty-four meters long and thirteen meters wide. It was designed to act as a drawing room for all of Paris society where they were meant to gather and enjoy all of the finearies their standing afforded them. With an elaborately decorated ceiling, painted by a deft hand in it could be found the representations of various moments in the history of music. The foyer then opens into an outside loggia at each end of which are the Salon de la Lune and Salon du Soleil.

At the building's heart lay the auditorium, having a traditional horseshoe shape it can easily, and comfortably seat one-thousand, nine hunrdred and seventy-nine before the stage which, heralded as the largest in Europe, is able to accommodate as many as four-hundred and fifty artists at a time. And yet the pinical of all this grandeur and luxury was the seven-ton bronze and crystal chandelier, designed by Garnier, the architect for whom the opera house was named. Cast and chased by Lacarière, Delatour & Cie the total cost for the piece which seemed to float with an elegance and grace that only complemented the happenings on stage came to thirty-thousand gold francs.

Yet for all the beauty and wonder the formal areas of the Palais Garneir held, the dormitories, and servants quarters shared little of this magnificence or glory.

Colombe Deveraoux was sixteen years old. A girl of no particular excellence or beauty she had dark brown hair, mossy green eyes, and a slight, underdeveloped frame. Having lived in the maid's quarters since the age of twelve she knew well the differences between what was meant for the public whose purses over flowed, and what she, with her calloused fingers and habitual lifestyle of having scarcely any monetary funds to her name was deemed worthy of appreciating.

Regardless it was there in the extravagant halls were Colombe had found her sanctuary from a violent and drunkard father, though, ruefully, her meagre wages still supported the wretch. She was a quiet girl, reserved, pious, and moderately well liked among the servants and others of her standing, though few of her betters ever took notice, at least not in the ways she would have wanted. Yet for all her obedience and calm self assurance she was also a girl who's will and sense of whimsy could get her into trouble, laughing late into the night with friends, gossiping, and finding all manner of activities with which to keep herself occupied.

Still, with all her simplicity and anonymity, Colombe was about to find herself part of a tragic tale which was anything but.


	2. Chapter 2

It was quiet. The soft glow of a newly risen autumn sun spilling in through a tiny window near the ceiling filled the room with a subtle illumination until it touched every corner and swathed every bed. Gradually the eased breathing of the girls within began to hasten, cut with occasional moans of dismay, wakefulness gripping their minds and moving them to emerge from the realm of dreams and nyx and into their world of perpetual work and duty.

Colombe Deveraoux who lay against the wall directly beneath the widow stretched, back arched, arms extended high overhead, a foot tracing along the leg of another girl as she did. The women's quarters were divided four bodies to a room, with enough space for a bed and trunk for each, but little else. These merry quartets oftentimes formed bonds that replaced family ties the girls typically were at a loss of when coming to dwell and labor in this place. It was a bond of sisterhood, familiarity, and a common destiny, as they each shared in one another's joys, sorrows, pains and successes, a bond that for many could last a lifetime.

It had grown cold sometime in the night and the bleary minded Colombe had been hardly surprised or disturbed when one of the others had crawled beneath the blankets beside her, sharing body heat in the cellars which seldom knew the comfort of consistent warmth.

Rolling to face the sky, or what would have been the sky if not for the the layers of opera house above her Colombe opened her eyes, and stared at the dark, gradually fading space over her bed. She could never be sure why, but since her childhood days of chasing cats down alleys and bashful side long glances towards neighboring boys, morning had always given way to a quiet, reflective nature often hidden away within.

This life wasn't an easy one, simple, and not without its charms, yes, but never easy. She worked hard with a tempered diligence and determination that seemed catching to those about her. Constantly marveled by the beauty, the dreamlike quality, and grandeur directly sculpted or painted into the walls all about, and roofing overhead she maintained a sense of awe while others failed to see the allure and even, after a time came to resent the beauty they were surrounded by. Colombe, though, was ever grateful and reverenced by the opportunity of merely being here. Letting out a long wistful sigh the girl stretched again before rolling towards her companion.

"It's morning." the weary brunette murmured, allowing her muscles to relax again, as if making ready to return to slumber.

With a characteristic whimper Sophie Bellerose buried her face into the joint of Colombe's shoulder and neck. "Don't say that!" she pleaded. "I hate when you say that, it never means anything good."

Sophie, who was far from the youngest of the group certainly did act the part. Her hair was an unruly mass curly blonde tresses which elegantly framed the deep blue eyes that had found her on a fair number of young man's minds, but that was before the fire in which she and her family had lost everything. Having been at the opera house only a year she was still soft and ill accustomed to work, wishing instead to attend the gallas she was meant to ready, reminiscent of days that took place what seemed to be eons ago.

"Its cold!" came the sharp but muffled voice of Felicity Lamar from across the room as she stood, wrapped like a wayfaring refugee in her blanket and began shuffling towards them.

"Why is it always my bed?" Colombe groaned plaintively, despite the smile, as she was pressed to the wall in effort to accommodate the three tightly packed forms.

"It's because we love you best." Felicity half sang clambering over Sophie to peck a kiss into Colombe's cheek earning some mumbled grousing from the recipient.

Once everyone was rearranged and settled the trio relished the warmth and closeness before fiendish ideas entered Sophie's mind with a fevered roguery. "Yes, mi amor, you are forever the star shining in our hearts." she giggled inching over to nibble on Colombe's earlobe. The brunette shrieked pawing with a startled aggravation at the accosted body part. "Prude." the blonde laughed with the cadence of a song bird.

"Hey, just because you're a whore doesn't make our Colombe a prude!" muttered the girl at the edge of the bed.

Everything erupted into a fit of rabble rousing; pillows crashing down upon heads, fingers dancing across abdomens, and laugher filling the tiny room as brief scuffles ranged across the mattress, bedding taking flight. Scrambling out of the fray Colombe looked about the room with some confusion, most pointedly at the fourth bed, which stood very empty and disused.

"Where is Viv?" Colombe asked turning towards her comrades.

An impish silence hung in the air as the combatants fell apart. The eldest of the group had a new beau. Not quite as handsome or profitable as Emaurri who worked in the kitchens and would see the group plied with sweets when he could, the tall lanky stable hand that was Vivian Tasse's Louvel had his own perks, or so she said. It was almost preordained then, that the door should swing in, reveling a slightly disheveled Vivian, who looked at her roommates with wide eyed horror, bits of straw still tangled in her caramel brown hair, shoes carried in hand.

The group pounced on her with questions, and taunting remarks, giving her good with the assurance that if ever they were caught so compromised so too would be their fate. After jeering their friend into a state of red faced mortification the girl's all dressed and readied themselves for the day ahead. Making their way to the kitchens where they were to dine hurriedly among the other members of the serving class they spoke idly about on thing or another but it was soon apparent that something was quite blissfully amiss today.

Glancing about the four were exhilarated to find a severe lack of order among the maids, which could only be an indication of one thing. This morning, was one of the rare, God gifted days when Madame Chaput was not dining with them in the hall, her piercing hawk like gaze cutting through them as she supervised their every action. Scarce though these mornings might have been seldom were they taken for granted and while the whole of the quarters was alive with gossip and laugher Colombe slipped away to eat among the painted angels she liked to think of as her's.

Cherishing the simple cool the sheer marble pillar offered her back as she leaned against it the girl closed her eyes and smiled. This was the best part of day; before the noise, the calamity, before scrub brushes, and floor polish, scrutiny, and then, inevitably, the public. This was the time when truly the opera house, home to both the Paris Opera, and the Paris Opera Ballet, felt like a temple to the arts and spirits thereof that surly dwelled within.

The change was still a startling one for Colombe, even after four years. Her mother had been devout and raised her to be just as God fearing, but after she became ill, and inevitably died, the peace died with her. First came a lapse in the cleanliness of the home, and her father's unkempt attire. Then came the appearance of glass bottles, here and there at first, but soon they overwhelmed much of the living space, filling it with a sickly noxious odor. Shortly after began the unspeakable acts of abuse, and unpleasantness.

It had been a daring at of courage, conviction, and faith that had seen the twelve year old coming to the opera house in search of work, and miraculously, she'd found it. With some convincing, and promissory lies the child had never intended to keep the wretch had given her his blessing to leave. So it was that Colombe had rescued herself, when it had become apparent that no others would, and though he came seeking what he felt she owed him from time to time, the girl couldn't have been happier, living in this place of marvels.

"Am I interrupting anything?" came the familiar voice of Felicity, cutting through her reminiscent line of thought. Felicity was in truth Colombe's closest and dearest friend and ally against the vain and cruel Madame Chaput.

"Hmm?" Colombe teased opening her eyes with exaggerated bewilderment. "I-I'm sorry, what were you saying, I wasn't paying attention!"

The pair laughed as Felicity sank down to share the column, shouldering and elbowing the other girl as she did. The third child in a family of nine Felicity had been living in the quarters since she was eight and her family could no longer afford to feed her. Gentle and fair her fiery red locks betrayed her passion and pension for strong held emotions and beliefs by displaying it candidly to the world, as if in warning to any unsuspecting suitor who may happen her way.

"Sorry, I just didn't want to miss it." Colombe confessed as she motioned heavenwards. Outside the sun which warmed the earth was peaking it's crest, covering the world in a lustrous blanket of golden light. It had only just made it over the horizon when- Colombe smiled; a thin band of light bursting through the murk and mire that seemed to collect and abide in the unlit crevices of the ceiling, illuminating the gold leaf wings and halos of her favorite mural. "You're so beautiful." she heard herself mutter.

"Speaking with the angels again, or that saint of yours?" the interloper who Colombe liked to think of as an older sister asked, her tone laced with subtle mockery, eyes sparkling when the brunette crossed herself superstitiously. "Catholics!" Felicity giggled bumping and jostling the other girl in friendly play.

"Mock me all you like, but-" Colombe began before the humor filled redhead cut her off.

"'But I went through every saint in the book to help me when who should replace the missing key into my pocket but Zita!' Yes dear, I know, you've been telling that story for two years now." the loosely labeled Protestant sighed looking at the younger girl with fondness. "How certain are you that you hadn't merely forgotten which pocket the key was in?"

Aglow with mischief and laugher the girls spoke in unison, their hands tracing similar paths from forehead to sternum and then each of their shoulders, "As sure as I am the Lord rose again in Jerusalem."

After a brief bout of laugher at Colombe's own expense Felicity doled out the spoonful of honey she'd balanced atop her porridge and the pair ate in comfortable silence.

From there the day went on with lively exuberance. With no sign of Madame Chaput, childish rumors began to swirl regarding her death, and play found its way into every aspect of work the women and girls did. Racing along halls with brushes and buckets as the morning began in earnest Colombe and her friends laughed and talked well into the day. Fondling a sculpted breast here, or taking one's time to elaborately polish a bronze manhood there Felicity and Sophie were intent on finding new ways to get a rise out of the other two. Whether asking Vivian to show them how Louvel had been with her the night before or merely trying to cause discomfort for a blushing Colombe the fun and games lasted all morning.

It was as the others were away fetching clean water that the merriment came to an abrupt end. Lost in her scrubbing, the melody of a song she'd never hear in person in mind Colombe hummed an upcoming aria. It was pretty, and while few of the workers gave the lady Carlotta Giudicelli much merit as her voice could come off on edge, Colombe was fond of this piece.

So intent in her work, and transfixed by the song there had been little warning when an oppressive weight fell atop the kneeling young woman. A shock of fear thrilled it's way through the girl's form, lacing her limbs with the cold spark of adrenaline as a strong, gripping arm wrapped around her waist.

"That's some pretty music you're making Bibi, how about we make some music of our own?" came the rough and lascivious voice of the man who busied himself hefting the layers of skirts up and over Colombe's thighs with one hand, restraining her with the other. There was a brief struggle as the girl tried to free herself amid laugher, hot breath on her ear accompanied by the rasp of a man's tongue, while calloused, eager hands explored where they would.

"Hey, leave her alone!" Felicity called fiercely when she happened upon the scene, broom brandished like a polearm and ready to strike.

"We were just having a bit of fun, weren't we love?" the chief stagehand asked looking down on the now teary girl who scrambled up to her friend's side as he stood.

"Swine!" Felicity barked in the man's direction, spitting hotly upon the freshly washed marble that lay between them.

With an arm about her shoulders the redhead guided her now crying friend away from the stairs and down a short service hall. "Oh, my Colombe," she murmured sweeping stray locks from the other girl's face and pinning them behind her ears where they were appointed to stay. Seldom sure of herself in the given situation the broom wielding victor of the day was trying to find the perfect comforting words, but it was difficult. "You're hardly the first girl Buquet has handled," she tried with unsuccessfully lame bluntness and misguided realism. "Besides," she smiled precociously hoping to return to the lighthearted tone of moments ago. "If you keep going on like this people are liable to think you're a virgin."

The pair froze, Felicity mournful, she regretted her words the moment she'd given them breath, but even as she attempted to apologize Colombe was already worming out of her embrace to take flight down the hall.

It hadn't been of any grievous offense, it was often a way the girls and women joked and played with one another, Colombe included. Yet, distraught as she was, the fresh feel of disownership over her own body welling within, and memories of a father who loved her all too much, this was not the line of humor she most inclined towards at the time.

Running misty eyed through the passages and halls, turning abruptly when met with an impasse or figure she found herself huddled in a darkened room she little recalled ever seeing before. Face buried in her hands Colombe sobbed, hard languishing tears. Riddled with scornful, bitter trains of thought directed at a friend she knew little deserved them, fearful of the brash man who'd molested her, plagued by memories of the house she'd fled, and wallowing in the grim reality of her own lowly state a heart sick melancholy overcame the girl.

Felicity had been right, and honest to a fault. Colombe was in no manner the only girl assailed by the letcher, yet there was a bold indifference as to when he folded a maid over for the taking as opposed to if ever he were ever to try it with a ballerina. Most of the quiet workers, without whom the Palais Garnier could neither function nor be maintained, kept their heads down and disliked such attention, though they received it often. Where the dancers were wildly flirtatious and shameless buxom to a fault they rarely faced ramification for possessing the fine bodies they did.

It was due to the protection offered them by their position in the opera house, the girl wouldn't wonder with some amount of spite. They were the reason the seats got filled every night, and if anything was amiss with them, damaged body or soul retribution would be swift and decisive. For the lowest caste in this preportedly free society however, little if anything would be done, and this sorely haunted her. Though her friend was right on a second account as well; Colombe was far from virginal, used by her father, the drunken devil, if ever she had wished for death it was his doing.

After a time the frantic pelt of tears began to slow, becoming the shallow hiccuping whimpers of a lost child, rather than the heart torn sobs of the damned. Rubbing her weary eyes with the heels of her palms Colombe knew she had been gone far too long, and with much work to be done in anticipation for the night's showing of Hannibal, her absence could not be tolerated. She'd been preparing herself to rise and face the injustices of the world beyond her shadowed little haven when a voice found her in the dark.

"Were you hurt?" it asked gently.

"No," Colombe lied for few ever took into account the scars and injuries of the soul. "I was just-" she paused searching her surroundings for the speaker, but could find no one. "Frightened." she managed, standing hurriedly and backing towards the door. She had only just made contact with the large sheet of wood when it gave way causing her to stumble backwards in its disappearance and into the arms of none other than Felicity.

"There you are!" cried Sophie helping to steady her friends, each having taken a fright.

"We were worried!" Felicity added balling the brunette in her arms and hugging her desperately. "I'm sorry for what I said before, I didn't think. You weren't hurt were you?"

Eyes red rimmed and watery Colombe looked up into the earnest, caring faces she loved best as an urgent Vivian rounded the corner. "I'm fine," she smiled, a wavering expression. "And I forgive you, I was just," she stopped staring hard into the pitch from which they had drawn her, the light of day seemed to make scarcely an impact upon the night within that room, even as the dreamlike familiarity of the questioning dawned on her. "I was just frightened." she uttered at length.

Ushered away from the short dusty hall she had woven her way into, and back to the world of color, and light, music, and silence, angels, and demons, her mind could not help but reel at the question posed in a simple thought; whose was the voice that spoke to her?


End file.
